Not Going Out
by manfredbloors
Summary: New update! Yay. Come on skinny love just last the year.
1. Honey, I'm home

**A/N 'Not going out' isn't a very original name, I know. These are just some mini-sodes that will pop into my head from time to time. It's not like the vast majority of us have handguns or even less the desire to shoot some walls. XD Enjoy.**

* * *

John is used to going out alone. Sherlock never leaves unless necessary, so he accepts it as part of the deal. It isn't like Sherlock would enjoy a stroll, just for the fun of it.

What he isn't used to is what awaits him when he get's back. He's had the gunfire of a wall being shot. He's had his flatmate sitting on the floor completely engrossed in conversation with a skull.

Not anything truly terrifying, like this.

Sherlock sits on the couch staring at his hands. No, no on closer inspection, staring at the little objects in his hands.

Two pills, blue in his left palm and red in his right.

Everything goes out of John's mind, everything except dread.

Is he really that stupid? No he can't be, it cannot be what he thinks it is.

But, he wouldn't put it past the tall madman to do this, all in the name of a way out of boredom.

Sherlock looks up. "Which one, John?" Oh what he's asking John now. For an opinion? No for a choice.

Is he completely mad?

"What are they?" He tries, desperately forcing a tone of nonchalance.

The detective smiles and shakes his head. "Can't tell you, might affect your choice, now come on. Which one?"

He tries again. "Neither."

"I'm just going to have them both anyway."

Damnit. "Fine." Red or blue? His mind is screaming at him. "Red." Now he prays.

Sherlock smiles up at him. "Oh good. I really don't fancy 'Caribbean Punch'"

Then, and only then does John notice the bright red packet of Jelly Beans on the floor.

* * *

**Trust me. 'Caribbean Punch' is terrible.**


	2. Do you dare?

Okay, so everything wasn't spotless. But he had tidied up a bit. Purely to annoy the flatmate who almost constantly infuriated him.

He had intended it as a joke but the 'You wouldn't dare…' had challenged him, and what sort of man was he if he did not accept.

One thing he had tidied, which the thought of still made him laugh, was the skull. So that when Sherlock confronts Mrs. Hudson, there would the oh so rare expression of confusion upon that handsome face. People would pay good money to see the great detective confused, and frankly he was one of them.

He'd also tidied the cupboards, finding several pieces of battered electronic equipment here and there, and stocked the fridge.

He isn't cruel, he'd left the various papers and books where they lay. But the nicotine patches, the nicotine patches might have gone walkabout.

He's smiling like a fool when Sherlock gets home, and his grin widens at the younger man's strangled mutter of "You didn't…"

John shakes his head with a laugh and smiles sweetly. "You're the detective, go and check."

He watches as Sherlock's calm façade dissolves into frantic, hysterical madness. He watches as Sherlock disappears into the kitchen and then comes back to stare at the sofa.

"You've sorted through the cupboards, probably helpful, thank you."

Sherlock descends into silence and obviously deep thought. He throws John a mistrustful stare and stalks into his room.

There is silence, for a while, then a cry of:

"Watson! Where the devil is my skull!"

* * *

**Two in a row. I am on fire! Poor Sherlock he can't be lightening quick all the time and he has just got off an aeroplane. Oh and if you don't get it read John's blog.**


	3. How can one lose one's skull?

"I don't know, ask Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock storms back into the sitting room and yells at the top his his voice. "MRS. HUDSON!"

John wipes the smile of his face, it is quite cruel really, but he looks so adorably flustered.

However, he also looks like he's about to shoot somebody.

"What on earth do you want, dear?"

"Where's my skull?"

"I don't know last place I hid it was the airing cupboard and you found it."

And finally the awaited look of confusion, but it's to fast to be enjoyed as it turns to pure rage in seconds.

"Where. Is. It?" Sherlock's hands are shaking and John can see the brighter white over his knuckles due to clenched fists.

Not so adorable now.

John loses the smile and reaches behind the couch, withdrawing the skull and handing it to the furious detective.

Instantly the blue eyes brighten and the tenseness leaves. Sherlock's mouth curls up at the corners and he laughs full and happy.

"You actually thought I was really that angry about the skull!"

"You bast-" John can't even finish before he begins to laugh as well.

All the while Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway, and just as she leaves she smiles and thinks to herself. 'They really do go well, thank god he's finally found a friend.'

And she departs to the sound of a friendly laughter she thought she'd never hear with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**John will never win. Not so long as Sherlock has anything to say about it. Hope you enjoyed. **


	4. Glass I

Sherlock Holmes stands, staring at the board containing every detail he had dredged up for his latest case. In his hand is a glass of, well ribena, but let's just call it a celebratory drink. Another case closed.

John sits in his chair with a glass of red wine, one of them has to have a proper drink after all. His flatmate's happiness is infectious and he just can't help but smile.

"Brilliant, a double homicide closed in one day!" Sherlock looks at the smiley face on the wall and then back to John. "We are amazing."

"That we are." John raises his glass. Amused smile on his face and a glint of pure contentment in his eyes. "To The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

The detective raises his own glass but while he only hears the chink of the glasses, John hears something else as well.

The sound a bullet being propelled from the chamber of a sniper rifle, he doesn't have time to think, he just grabs the younger man and pulls him down.

John finds himself staring into confused blue eyes, but he doesn't have to explain himself for in a flash of time to fast to calculate the bullet flies through the glass of the window, straight through the space that ol' blue eyes had been just a second earlier and embeds itself deep into the wall.

Sherlock goes to stand up but John holds him down, saying nothing, eyes dark. He's back in the battle field, he knows what to do. Crawling to the window and taking a small look around he sees that the immediate danger has passed but he still insists on getting as far away from those windows as possible.

00000000000

Sherlock leans against the wall in the kitchen, his heart beating erratically and his breathing unsteady.

He watches the doctor calm himself down and closes his eyes.

John Watson has just saved his life, again.

He's so grateful but has absolutely no idea how to show it. A mere 'thank you' is not enough.

John is the reason he's here right now, the reason he is breathing.

Sherlock had always thought himself as so independent, a sociopath, he doesn't like people. But John Watson had thought his life worth saving.

John Watson has saved his life, what can he possibly do to repay such a debt?

He'll think about it, but right now he opens his eyes and smiles, for John is smiling too.

"Adventures indeed."

* * *

**Alcohol is a depressant, it slows down the brain activity and makes people more stupid than they already are. Sure he's a recovering drug user but I highly doubt this modern Sherlock would be up for a pint. He might be, but in this 221b he isn't. Okey dokey?**

**As always hope you enjoyed.**


	5. Glass II

"I thought you didn't like the use of 'Adventures'"

Sherlock shrugs. "It's grown on me."

"Right then, as I saved your life, _you_ now have to buy _me_ dinner."

"Chinese?"

John blinks, he's actually agreeing. "Um. Yeah sure."

Sherlock grins, grabs his coat and bounds leaps down the stairs two at a time.

Rolling his eyes, John follows, but not before grabbing his gun.

When John reaches the street, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

A sniper tried to kill him and you've sent him out! He screams at himself. If he's dead, it's your fault!

He hears a shout in the darkness, it's his name, and it's that damned voice.

Without a second thought he runs in the direction of the call, rounding a corner to find Sherlock slumped against the wall unconscious. Again not thinking about why his friend is still here, he puts the taller man's arm around his shoulders and drags him back to 221b.

000000000

Sherlock comes back to the world of the living with a jump. "John."

"It's okay. I'm here."

Sherlock sits up straight and coughs. "Good, how many meals do I owe you now?"

John laughs and pushes him on the shoulder, it's light but he's just woken up, so he falls over.

"Sorry!" The doctor tries to help him up.

But Sherlock won't let himself be righted, he stays on the floor laughing.

"I think I'm in shock." He remarks.

"You aren't in shock, you're drunk on adrenaline."

"Yes of course, doctor, but how _does_ one treat shock?" Sherlock puts on an innocent voice.

"Shut up and get up for a start!"

"No, I'm comfortable. Goodnight." He isn't lying and he's suddenly really tired.

0000000

"Sherlock?" John pokes the younger mans arm. "Sherlock! God almighty, if you are going to sleep at least sleep in your room!"

He knows he's wasting his breath.


	6. You would miss it too

There hasn't been a murder in a while, moods are low and a bored Sherlock sits in his chair watching Watson watch the rain.

Rain, of course the inevitability of the coming winter. The air is turning colder and the wind is getting fiercer but all the English complain about is the rain.

Sherlock doesn't like the rain because it's dull. Some people see the beauty in it, he just can't, to him these clouds don't have a silver lining.

He gets up quietly and stands next to his flatmate. Now he can see the expression that adorns John's face he's shocked. John looks peaceful, as if the rain is calming.

"I always hated the rain." He says quietly.

John gives a start but smiles. "I did too, but then I went away and I started to miss it."

Sherlock puts his hand on the new glass of the window and let's the cold seep into him. " It's so dull and grey." He sighs. "It's depressing."

He has always hated the rain. Since he was small. It just made the world around him dreary, all the animals went away and everyone was cooped up inside. He doesn't like being cooped up, it's through choice that he stays inside, if he was told he had to, he probably wouldn't.

There is a saying, he doesn't know where he heard it, that says 'The greatest pleasure in life is doing what other people say you cannot do'

Anderson says that it isn't possible for him to do what he does, so he gets better at doing the impossible.

Sgt. Donavan said he doesn't have friends, he doesn't, not plural. But John Watson is a friend, hopefully.

DI Lestrade says he musn't go off on his own, so he does.

Yes, he muses, the saying is definitely true.

He starts to listen to the rain now. It makes a melancholy sort of music, but it's beautiful, very beautiful.

A sudden increase in the volume and force of the it draws him out of his thoughts and he turns to see John staring at him.

"You were miles away."

Sherlock smiles. "I was right here, listening to the rain."

John raises his eyebrows. "Listening?"

He nods. "The sound," he says. "It's quite beautiful."

John looks out again. "Yeah. Yeah it is."

* * *

**I personally love watching the rain, when it's really heavy and it pounds the pavement. The sound is beautiful and I love being out in it because it's so cold and refreshing.**


	7. These calls always go the the police

John Watson wakes up to a heavy sort of silence. The feeling one gets when one knows that something is not quite right. Clue number 1, it's 10 o'clock, he never gets to sleep this late.

Clue number 2, it's quiet, even now he's truly listening.

Anxious he runs downstairs to the living room.

Nothing.

Sherlock's room?

No-one. He doesn't even take the time to take in the room, he's never seen it before. Sherlock has, of course, invaded his when the kitchen is full of dead people, but John respects privacy.

There is something though, a note. Hastily scribbled and almost unintelligible but it was something.

_John, I am s_

There was a straight line following the s, as if he had been dragged away.

John stops breathing while his heart beats a mile a minute.

S? S-orry, s-afe unlikely but, moving on, s-tupid. He can't help but smile at that one, but then he remembers that his friend may be in actual danger. Panic grips him again.

Unthinking he gets his phone.

_Where are you, Sherlock.  
John _

He knows it's pointless.

The beep from the phone on the sofa cuts him like a knife.

But then there is another beep. From his phone.

_John, I'm not dead, yet.  
I am some kind of hostage.  
SH_

He frantically replies.

_Where are you?  
John_

Ring, ring.

John smiles and his spirits lift but hold on, Sherlock doesn't call.

His heart stops and he answers the call with baited breath.

"**Doctor Watson." **It's a computer generated voice, who actually uses computer generated voices? **"If you want your friend to live you will follow these instructions."**

There is a very pregnant pause. "Go."

"**I want you to go to Detective Inspector Lestrade and give him the phone."**

"Why couldn't you have just called him?" Possibly not the best idea, that, to be sarcastic to the captors of a person who has probably already goaded them to the point where they might just kill him anyway.

"**Insolence and he will suffer, Doctor Watson." **There is a petulant whine of 'Ow!' that can only be Sherlock. Sherlock's voice was clear, it wasn't CG so how come the 'big bad' has his voice scrambled?

John shakes his head, 'You aren't Sherlock,' he tells himself, 'Let the police sort this out.'

"I'm going right now."

"**Good. I would suggest you hurry." **"Oh because _of course_ he's going to take his time, hey John why don't you take a _detour_?" Sherlock's voice oozes with sarcasm. **"Shut it, you!"**

"Sherlock, do as the man says."

"Fine." The detective sounds unharmed, and John is overwhelmed with a feeling that this might not end badly, hell, it may even teach the great Sherlock Holmes a lesson.

John takes a taxi to Scotland Yard.

To Be Continued.

And the Eastenders closing theme.

And Dun dun dun…

* * *

****

**I always envision Sherlock to be ever so slightly the petulant child. But he's lovely all the same, isn't he?**

By the way. THANK YOU! To all those who are still reading this, and even more thanks and unending gratitude to you lovely people who review.


	8. It's for you

"I'm here to see Lestrade." The phone is still on, the call still in progress, in his pocket as he walks calmly through the desks.

"Where's the freak?" There's a huge smile on that damned face and he's just itching to punch her.

"I don't know." Grin widens, his eyes narrow.

"He's probably out killing someone." No, Sally, he's out being killed.

"Look can I just speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade." Time is really of the essence here but he has to keep his cool, for Sherlock.

"Sure, go ahead." Sgt. Donavan waves her hand dismissively behind her and John fights the urge to kick her.

Urge fought he enters Lestrade's office.

"Doctor Watson, how can I help you?" Lestrade is smiling, he's most likely just finished the paperwork of another solved case, almost certainly one solved thanks to Sherlock.

John holds out the phone with a shaking hand. "They want to speak to you."

The inspectors eyes narrow and he doesn't take the phone. "Who are they?"

It's a sensible question but there is no time for this. "They have Sherlock."

Lestrade looks shocked and immediately takes the phone, he puts it on speaker and holds one finger to his lips.

John nods without realising it and he takes a seat. His legs gone to jelly and his eyes down.

"This is Lestrade."

"**Good morning, Inspector. If you want your crime solver back alive you will follow these instructions."**

"It is against police policy to agree to ransoms." Johns head snaps up and he fixes Lestrade with a deathly glare. Who cares about some stupid policy when Sherlock's life is in danger. But then no-one actually likes Sherlock. No-one except him. Surely they need the worlds only consulting detective enough to pay up.

"**I haven't finished, Inspector. I want 150,000 pounds, delivered to one of my men on the left side of the Lambeth bridge at midnight tomorrow."**

John writes hastily on a post-it. 'Have you traced the call?'

Lestrade shakes his head.

John writes again 'Do it now. Ask if I can speak to Sherlock. Take the phone off speaker.'

Surprisingly Lestrade nods. "I'd like to speak to Sherlock, please."

"**Make it quick."**

John grabs the phone as Lestrade hastens toward Sgt. Donavan.

"Sherlock."

"Yes." John has never been so happy to hear a persons voice. Not even in the war.

"Thank god. Okay we need to keep this call going for as long as it takes to trace."

"Okay, Mrs. Hudson took my skull again." Trust Sherlock to think of his skull at a time like this.

"I'll help you find it. Do you know where you are?" It's a long shot but he has to take it.

"No. The wonders of blindfolds." The silky voice drips with sarcasm and is that… a stab of fear.

"Damn. £150,000 why that amount?" He brings this up to see whether Sherlock is alright, truly alright. John knows that if he is okay he will have deduced something.

"I suspect it is the cost of a lung transplant." Not something that specific, though, that was unanticipated.

John can't help the disbelief that colours his tone. "How on earth could you guess that it's a lung?"

And Sherlock dives into the explanation, which is unexpectedly quite simple. "Because a very ill old gentleman with yellow fingers and one hell of a smokers cough called here earlier."

"Happy that you don't smoke anymore?"

" Very. But Nicotine is just as dangerous." There is a smile in the younger man's voice and John can imagines that little smirk.

"And you'll never give that up, will you?" Now his own voice seeps with sarcasm.

"Never. It's too crucial to me." Crucial. Nicotine is crucial, but breathing? Nope, breathings boring.

From outside the office Lestrade mouths that they have a location and are sending a team now.

"Right, Lestrade has found you."

The detectives voice drops to a whisper. "Problem, it seems we are moving again."

"Keep the phone Sherlock." Panicked John stands and tries his best not to call to Lestrade.

"Big guy, coming towards me. I think he wants the phone. John just help me please!" There's a shuffling noise as the detective, presumably, tries to crawl away. "Hurry."

The last thing he hears is the sheer desperation in Sherlock's voice and the line goes dead.

* * *

**Cliffhanger. Can John convince the police to pay up? Does Sherlock have a cunning plan? Is everyone going to DIE! **

**Okay it isn't that last one because that would be silly. **

**Oh and because I'm cruel I can't update this for at least 3 days.**

**You know you want to review.**


	9. On the wall

John loses his footing and collapses into a chair. Now what? He thinks, Now what?

Lestrade comes strolling in with a confident look on his face before he notices that John isn't quite so happy.

"What's wrong?" Eyes dart carefully.

"They've moved him." He can't bring himself to say anymore than that. He can't bring himself to think about Sherlock or his predicament, the desperation still burned into his mind, over and over repeating, Help me.

The police officer lowers himself into a seat and raises his hand to his brow. "Oh god."

John snaps. "Pay the bloody ransom!" He yells.

Startled, Lestrade looks up. "That's a lot of money, John."

"I don't care!" His friend, best friend, maybe something more is going to be killed if they don't pay up and he knows that without Sherlock life will be worse than when he'd returned from the war. He will have utterly no reason to live, not without Sherlock.

"John," He knows that tone, it's the tone doctors use when they know it isn't going to get better. He braces himself. "We can't pay, I'm sorry."

It's all he can do not to swear violently. He gets up and leaves the building.

He wanders around for a bit, he doesn't know where he's going. Baker street would just hurt.

He mentally yells at himself for acting as if Sherlock is already dead.

Sherlock isn't going to die.

He doesn't have much money but he knows someone who does.

He takes out his phone and dials.

"Mycroft, I need your help."

"Ah, Dr Watson. What has my brother done now?"

"Got himself taken hostage and the only way he'll live is £150,000 to a gut at Lambeth bridge at midnight tomorrow."

"That's a lot of money."

"His captor has a relative in need of a lung transplant."

"Good cause then. Come to the office, John. I'll see what I can do."

John chuckles lightly at Mycroft's odd humour and makes his way to 'The office'

00000000

"Hello, John, take a seat."

Straight to the point, John feels a deep urgency when he says simply "Can you get the money?"

The eldest Holmes brother smiles. "Of course, the money will not be a problem. Our family is rich, you see. Surely you noticed."

Wait. "Why is he flat-sharing then?" And why hadn't he asked that question before.

"He does so like his independence." The drawling voice is very nearly Sherlock, but it's to condescending. Never did John think that was possible. "The problem, Doctor Watson, is how to stop it from happening again."

Ignoring the sudden change back to titles, John asks "You have a plan?"

"Uhm. No." John blinks and Mycroft adds hastily "Not yet."

John shifts about in his seat, un-nerved by the silence.

"We have time, John." Mycroft soothes. "He'll be fine." The government official narrows his eyes. "Why do you put up with him?"

The question shocks him but there is a real curiosity in the expression.

"I didn't," he responds. "Not at first, but once you look past the sociopathy and the tendency for stashing pieces of dead people in kitchen appliances, not to mention the downright insanity, he isn't half bad." And he accepts me, he wants to add, me the ex-army medic with a unpredictable psychosomatic limp.

Mycroft hums slightly and stands. "Well Doctor Watson. Here is the money." He holds out several wads of cash and smiles. "I trust you will free my brother. See you soon."

In a swirl of armed body guards John finds himself thrown from the building into a waiting taxi. Now Baker Street doesn't seem so bad, even if there is no crazy man there to greet him.

Crazy. The word doesn't seem right to describe Sherlock Holmes.

Sure, it's easy to describe him physically.

Tall, about 6" Thin. The guy is a rake, it's like he isn't there. Mop of unruly dark brown hair. Eyes like the sea during a storm.

His eyes, piercing and curious. All-seeing and sharp. Set into a face that is interesting, and appealing, with changeable slants and angles. John isn't going to lie, his flatmate is extremely good-looking.

It's the personality that is nigh impossible to define.

He says that he's a sociopath but John doesn't think that is quite true. John thinks that he was labeled that at an early age and has been living up to it ever since.

When they come to a gruesome murder, Sherlock wil quickly look away with a deep breath and return to the corpse with a distant look in his eyes. These murders leave him unresponsive and quiet, even to John.

But he tries his hardest to care about John and John knows this. He sees the confusion in the oceanic eyes whenever John comes home stressed or particularly emotional.

Sherlock will ask bluntly the reason of his mood and will listen to the answer, but he doesn't fully understand. He tries, lord he tries, but in the thirty odd years of detachment from emotions something in that brilliant, beautiful mind was lost. The metaphorical heart was gone, or perhaps just dormant.

While his own mind is lost in thought, John exits the cab and takes the stairs two at a time.

But there is something wrong, for the second time today John gets the feeling of disquiet. This time brought on by the sight of an open door, and a shadow.

Someones in the flat.

* * *

**Am I dragging this out? I mean the reason it's long is that the other problems in this story have been resolved so damn quickly and I thought...**

**Never mind. Tell me what you think.**

**And yes. It's early.**


	10. Oyster cards and Runaways

He knows he didn't leave it open.

It isn't broken, hasn't been forced, but it's open, wide.

Unlocked then, usually that requires a key. He has one, Mrs. Hudson has one and Sherlock has one but usually just relies on John to open the door. It's far too much effort, you see.

The shadow isn't Mrs. Hudson. It's distorted but he knows, it's that damned feeling again.

After being away from Sherlock for this long, it's only been a day, he can feel a severe pain in his leg, worse, worse than when he came back from the war. Well when you take medication the pain's always worse when they wear off. Sherlock is his medication. Sherlock isn't here.

Pain in his leg causes his entrance to be not a stealthy as he'd hoped. The intruder swings round.

No weapons, just a dazzling smile. Teenager, girl, and by the state of her clothes, a runaway.

"Evenin', sir." The girl smiles and nods her head. "You'd be Doctor Watson, yeah?"

The accent is cockney, it almost makes him smile. It's like she's stepped straight of the pages of a Victorian story, a quintessential street urchin.

"Yes, and you are?" He indulges in this because she looks harmless, she also looks like she has a purpose here.

"Name's Marlieze, call me Marley. I need to tell you something. Concerns Mr. 'Olmes."

Hiding the instant reaction of happiness he gestures to a seat, while he himself sits down.

"What is it?"

"I know where he is, Doctor Watson, sir." Her smile widens and she looks a bit smug, but there's more in her eyes, more to tell.

"We have the money," he says. "It's for a good cause and all, the transplant."

Her smile drops. "No sir, that's where you're wrong. The guy who's got your Sherlock, his father, he's the one what needs the lung but oh sir, he's a right piece of work, he is."

"What do you mean?"

"Drug dealer, hit-man, what d'you call slavery- human trafficking. Right bastard. The world is better with him dying of what ever bloody disease he's got, hope he suffers."

John smiles. "I agree, okay where is he than?" He cannot contain his glee now, he's getting Sherlock back, soon.

"Disused warehouse near the bridge," Lambeth, he assumes. "C'mon, sir, I'll take you there."

With the adrenaline his limp is gone. Marley doesn't want a taxi, she's far too proud. She takes him to the underground. She has an oyster card, and one for him.

"So how do you know Sherlock?" Sure, he's used to silent taxi rides but he's still human, still needs to talk. Actually, he's managed to get Sherlock to talk to him in the taxi now.

She smiles. "Well, I'm a runaway, y'see. My foster parents were abusive, but I didn't wanna go back into the system so I ran away. They wanted their punchbag back though, so they employed Mr. 'Olmes to find me. He did, of course, but I told him 'bout them and he told me a good place to 'ide. Sent me to the homeless network. Now I 'ave a home and my evil foster parents, well he said he needed to search the 'ouse, and he found evidence of abuse. Now the police think I'm dead, they think the parents killed me and my fosterers are in jail." She laughs, carefree and happy.

John finds himself warmed up by the story, Sherlock had helped this girl, probably saved her life. He smiles to himself as she asks him the same question.

"He was looking for a flatmate, so was I. Met through a mutual acquaintance and then same day I met him, I've moved in and started solving crimes with him."

"He doesn't normally manage to keep flatmates very long. But when I spoke to him, he talked of you like you were a friend, someone he trusts." She elbows him in the ribs and winks. "I think there was a bit of love in there too."

John laughs and looks at his hands. "Yeah, people talk."

She giggles. "I'm sure. Oh this is us." She leaps out of her seat and grabs his hand sending him flying with her out of the carriage onto the bustling platform. It's 10 o'clock, why is it this busy!

She hasn't stopped walking and he's still being dragged through crowds to the street where she tightens her grip on his hand and slides into alleyway after alleyway at a speed that even Sherlock couldn't match.

Th warehouseis a little on the foreboding side. It's huge and steely and how on earth did she find his Sherlock in this. He resists the urge to laugh that in his thoughts he refers to Sherlock as his. And all logical and deductive thoughts have adopted that velvety smooth baritone.

Silent and sure he sees Marley open the door and beckon him to follow with a wave of her hand.

After climbing to sets of stairs and what seems like walking over a mileof corridors John starts to get a littleout of breath. His leg is hurting, but it isn't psychosomatic, both of them are yelling at him to sit down. But apparently to hand signals and a little Morse code(?) The door over there leads to his Sherlock.

She tells him to sit and wait while she checks the guards are sleeping, if they aren't she has dope. Where she got it, he really doesn't want to know.

She comes back a little later and tells him that just to be sure she's doped every one 'cept Sherlock and left said detective asleep. She lets John go in first now.

The detective is a bit bloodied up. His bottom lip is slightly swollen and bleeding. He has a cut on his forehead and several defence wounds on his beautiful delicate hands. His hair is unkempt and his clothes are torn in several places, there's a slash in his thigh where John can see blood oozing from a rather deep cut. The red contrasts starkly against the white.

John taps his detective lightly on the shoulder and smiles as the piercing ocean eyes flutter open.

"John." Voice is hoarse and gravelly, and the younger man seems to be too tired to speak again.

John lifts Sherlock, draping the thin arm around his own broad shoulders, and carries him out the door as silent as possible.

Marley gasps as Sherlock's wounds are hit by the moonlight, but she joins him in carrying his injured friend.

With his Sherlock safely near him, the walk back to the street and then the subway feels shorter.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, chooses this time to wake up and try to protest against going on the train, John soothes him and he soons slips back into unconsciousness.

He's coming to the conclusion that Marley has an infinite supply of Oyster cards, he swears he saw some as she went into her pocket to retrieve one for Sherlock. Being homeless must have it's benefits, but she isn't homeless, she's free, she just doesn't have a house.

Marley helps John take Sherlock up to the flat and then makes her leave.

"Glad, I could 'elp, sir." She says, shaking his hand. "If ever you need anything, ask Sherlock he'll know where to find me."

He smiles. "And you, if ever you are in need of anything, you know where to find us. Thank you."

Marley curtsey's and grins. "You'd better get those cuts seen to, Doctor, he'll need you even more now. It ain't easy being held hostage, even for the great Sherlock 'Olmes. Take care now."

She leaves and John immediately starts to help Sherlock. The detective is more awake now and he mumbles, "Were you going to pay?"

"Mycroft gave me the money. I'll give it back though."

Sherlock gives him a strained smile. "Don't do that, we can share it." He coughs. "Think it through."

John feels his mouth draw into a grin. "One day, you'll tell me what started the sibling rivalry."

"I'm just glad there will be another day. They looked at me like they were just aching to kill me."

"You think I'd let them?" False indignation colours his tone as he gives Sherlock a look that says not bloody likely.

"I'm sorry I doubted you."

He chuckles. "You get some rest while I try to patch you up."

Sherlock relaxes but then his bloodied hand grabs John by the arm. "John," the voice is as harsh as he can get. "Where's my skull?" Then he falls unconscious to the floor.

Smiling to himself John mutters to the sleeping detective, his Sherlock. "D'you know, I hadn't even noticed it was gone."

* * *

**Dear lord, I thought I'd never finish it, every time I did it didn't feel right. **

**Marlieze is a Baker Street Irregular, I made her female because statistics show most teen runaways are girls. **

**Please review, I hope it is okay. **


	11. Clear

It's strange for him to think that the crumpled, lifeless form in his arms was once his friend.

Cropped golden hair, tangled and matted with blood. Eyes that should be open and happy, they're closed now.

Confounded at how he can't do anything as an ambulance crew lifts his life away, nothing but follow, orange blanket loose on his shoulders.

Like a lost child he sits in the ambulance, vaguely hearing words and beeps that he can't decipher. He catches a flat-line and a shout of clear.

Clear, clear, clear, more and more desperate, clear.

"You'd better call it."

"No, this man is a hero, we'll get him back!"

Reminds himself to thank this paramedic, regardless of the outcome, then sinks further into himself.

Flat-line breaks, there's a faint beep, then another and another, more strong, and really there.

His glass box breaks and the world floods in on him with a deafening clarity.

Vision blurs, and a tear of pure joy rolls down an ashen cheek.

For the first time, Sherlock Holmes is overcome by emotions he didn't know he possessed.

000000

Never stood for being in a hospital, disease upsets him, he's not _that_ cold.

For John he sits by, guard dog and friend. He knows that if he goes back to an empty flat, he won't escape the drugs, and what they do to him. He doesn't want to lose himself, he wants to find someone else.

Lestrade pulls some strings and now the visiting hours don't apply.

An unknown hand of reassurance on his shoulder once or twice, Harry.

Murmers of 'he'll be fine' and 'get some sleep'. He knows this, now is not the time to be negative, the glass is VERY MUCH half full, but he won't sleep, can't sleep. This insomnia is worse than it's ever been.

Two days, comatose. Two days of wanting to scream and to cry, not knowing which to do, settling for outward indifference while a child inside sobs in the confusion. Why won't he wake up?

000000

Day three and the hand he hadn't noticed he was holding grips him tightly, willing him to bring its owner back to the world. He complies, how could he not, a responsive tug and the doctors eyes open.

Groggily his friend looks around before a smile splits his face.

"Sherlock, why are you holding my hand?"

Who cares about hand holding, the detective flings himself from his chair and envelops the doctor in a hug that speaks so many volumes.

The doctor continues. "Oh well, it isn't like I mind."

Sherlock smiles into John's shoulder, wondering how long he'd wanted to hear those words. Wondering what they entail. Thinking that as long as there's a tomorrow with John, he's willing to wait and see.

* * *

**And that was me trying a different writing style. Is it okay?**

**Oh, and this is going to turn into a word of the week thing. If you want to offer some words, I may not get to them, but I'd appreciate it.**


	12. Gregarious, Command, Scare

_Gregarious_

The music hurts his ears. Dreadful eighties nonsense. Heinous crime to the term music.

It smells gastly, cigarettes, normally fine, but there's an ache in him now, he can't be near someone who smokes without wishing he still did. It's when the smoke mixes with stale beer and food that the smell is unbearable.

The pub he finds himself scanning is shabby, old, the only people here are regulars and children just about allowed to drink, it's probably their local, maybe they think it's cool.

But he's here, with John. Why is that again?

Oh yes, it had been the eyes, wistfulness just emanated from them. He had to follow. Didn't much think of saying no. Ever since the… incident he's been loathe to leave the doctors side.

John wanted a pint. Again, why? Alcohol just slows you down. He doesn't much care for the stuff.

He's had enough, but he doesn't want to drag John away. He waits until the glass has only a fifth left.

"Can we go now?" It's more petulant than he'd intended but it does the trick.

John laughs and downs the fifth in one before standing and shrugging on his jacket. "You have to be the single most gregarious person I've ever met." The doctor remarks.

Sherlock smiles and follows him out into the cold air. "My mission in life."

Doctor and detective stroll back to their flat, some might say that they're a little to close to be considered platonic, but hey, let 'em talk.

The dark haired one stops suddenly and turns on his companion.

"Never do that to me again."

John smiles innocently. "Do what?"

"That was a test, you didn't complain when I asked to leave! You wanted to know how long I'd last!"

The quiet London evening is filled with laughter as the shorter one speeds off into the night. The tall one hot on his heels.

**I doubt John could out run Sherlock, he's at a disadvantage due to the height difference, but then after the war his stamina is probably much better than Sherlock's so hey you never know!  
Cashwin's word. Hope it's okay.**

_Command_

It isn't his turn but quite frankly he's given up trying to get Sherlock to the supermarket. The detective seems wholly against any type of shopping, dull, he says, boring.

He wonders if he should put up with this, this and all else that drives him mad. He probably shouldn't but he does.

It isn't like he's commanded to do things or treated like a slave. Sometimes Sherlock can be a little curt, but then so can he.

John Watson smiles to himself at the self service machine (it doesn't hate him anymore) and thinks that there's no place like home even if the one who waits there is a bit demanding.

**Demanding, now there's a way to put it lightly.**

_Scare_

He thought it had stopped, but it seems to have come back since the… incident. Probably some kind of memory thing, a soft of déjà vu. It hurts him to hear it, the screams, the thrashing. He finds himself walking up the stairs, treading lightly.

It's not like it keeps him awake, he's awake anyway. Nothing sinister, he doesn't get nightmares, it's the nicotine that gets him. He knows that your only supposed to have one, but he figured as he used to be a chain smoker he could get away with two. Now he uses three or four, that's what you get.

He opens the door carefully, there's no creak, breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't go in yet. Just stands in the doorway, the threshold between leaving Watson the hell alone and interfering with what is obviously a touchy subject.

A violent scream makes him flinch and he crosses said threshold in an instant, grabbing the doctors shoulders and, unsure of what to do, shaking him awake.

At first he fights a bit but once his eyes are open he shrinks away, recoiling from Sherlock's touch. He looks ashamed.

Sherlock searches his mind for something to say but comes up empty. "Is there anything I can do?" He asks, best he could dredge up.

He moves back slightly, sitting on his heels by the bed, John sits up and puts his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry," He tries again. " but please, let me help."

The doctor looks up at him, pain in his eyes. A haunted shadow of a man in this weak state, but Sherlock doesn't see John as weak.

John faces his fears by actually sleeping, Sherlock knows that if he had nightmares of that severity, he'd do anything to keep them away. He'd probably take far too many sleeping pills medication, or even revert back to being a user.

John manages a small rueful smile. "I don't think there is."

"Would talking about it help?" He's clutching at straws here but he's never wanted anything as much as he wants to save his friend from the horrors that plague him.

The smile is a little bigger but it still won't reach John's eyes. "It might do." He scoots over a bit and gestures for Sherlock to sit next to him. "Your lucky, my therapist's been wanting this out of me for weeks."

**To be continued. My genarator throws nice words at me. Guess the next one. I dare ya!**


	13. Tag, Sunlight

_Tag_

"I was a part of Uphill Company B, we called ourselves Viper. We were trying to gain elevation on an Afghan ridge. We were moving south, climbing a ridge that rose more than nine thousand feet above sea level and towered over the Korangal Valley, near the border with Pakistan. Our mission was to search for arms caches and insurgents and to harass the large but elusive forces that for three years have made the valley the scene of the bitterest infantry fighting in Afghanistan. We weren't alone. In the air a pair of attack helicopters were flying in wide circles. Farther out, and higher, fixed-wing attack aircraft were on station. Soldiers call these_ assets,_and in the event we found what we were looking for, either asset was ready to race to the ridge line and help with the killing. It was like some huge game of tag!

This time though, they didn't help. Our assets abandoned us until it was too late, me and three others were alive, allowed to live. The enemy went back into their hiding places by morning and I woke up in hospital before being transferred home. Shot through the shoulder, I wasn't much use anymore."

John lifts his knees up and clings to them, crunched into a tight ball. He's finished his story and he doesn't feel much better yet.

He can hear Sherlock's gentle breathing but he doesn't look up, the concern highlighting his flatmate's handsome features isn't going to help.

Sherlock reaches over and places his hand upon John's shoulder. "Thank you, for talking to me." There's a smile in his voice.

John looks now, his eyes find the blue ones and he's surprised that they don't show concern, they show a fierce protectiveness and a slight anger. But there's affection there, warm and pleased that this is over.

John lets the image of those eyes stay in his mind as he drifts off to sleep, exhaustion bearing down on him. Sherlock is there, in his dreamworld, fighting away the demons with cool logic.

000000

Sherlock's mind had drifted away from John and he'd begun to stare out of the window onto the stars.

He looks back down to find John sleeping, a smile on his face.

Sherlock grins, mission accomplished, he's fought off the nightmares.

When he reaches the door, he looks back and wonders what is making John smile, he'll ask in the morning.

One last look and he drifts back to his own room, the small light still glowing and his book waiting for him.

No rest for the wicked, which is why John is now sleeping soundly while he reads. John's the hero.

John deserves all the happiness he can get.

**I don't know whether I like this or not. Uphill B is real, and they were stationed near the border, but the thing with the assets not helping I just made up. And I know that John's nightmares were in daylight but he was smiling in some of them, maybe they were memories of his friends? Besides the dark just makes it sound more terrifying, being ambushed and stuff. That would be what made it all traumatic. I digress, moving on.**

_Sunlight_

John wakes up to streams of sunlight through his window. His neck hurts a bit but he slept so well. He smiles again as he sees the image of Sherlock, tall thin, breakable, waving a book in some insurgents face. Laughs out loud.

Changes into some jeans and a tee shirt because it looks warm, it looks nice, outside.

Wandering down into the kitchen, smile still lighting up his face, he find a clean table and a tired looking Sherlock grasping a cup of coffee like it's the last one in the world.

His friend jumps when one of the floorboards creaks, then smiles up at him. "Did you sleep better?"

"Yeah, thanks for that."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "When I left you, you were smiling. May I ask what made you smile?"

John giggles. "I was just dreaming about you killing insurgents with a book." After saying this he can't help himself, he doubles over shaking with laughter as his flatmates face registers confusion.

Then there is a short laugh. "Yes, because I would kill them with a book."

Lighthearted sarcasm as they both laugh, while the sunlight still streams in.

**Me tired. This weird writing style. I often find myself clinging to my coffee for dear life. In fact I am now. **


	14. Punch, Apology

_Punch_

"I'm just saying you didn't need to punch him!"

"Well he clearly wasn't going to shut up, so I did what was necessary."

"Necessary?... Or satisfying?"

"…Both."

Chuckles. "How long have you been wanting to do that?"

"Longer than I care to remember, John, far too long."

"I'll have to admit it was hilarious!"

"D'you think? He did stagger back a bit didn't he?"

"Oh yeah, and you might have broken his nose."

"Well I can't say it would make much of a difference."

"Even more distracting, perhaps."

"Perhaps. Now dinner, and didn't you have some films to show me?"

**I think it works just being dialogue, but do tell me if it doesn't.**

_Apology_

He breaks down under that fierce gaze. Falls to his knees on the harsh damp gravel and tries to hold himself together, while the anger and betrayal in those eyes tears him apart.

"How could you do that?" It isn't a shout, and that just hurts more. "Why?" There are tears in the other man's eyes now and the voice is so hurt and full of a childlike innocence standing out against the sirens and the noise.

He tries to make excuses. "We're both alive, aren't we?" It isn't as strong as he would have liked and his visions fading fast.

He looks down at his hands, they're red. He nearly passes out. John's strong arms catch him as he slumps sideways.

The doctor is muttering wildly and then he looks down into Sherlock's eyes. "Don't you dare!" He half cries. "Don't you dare, You can't leave me like this! It isn't fair."

Sherlock knows his time is running out, his strength is fading and the world around him has started to dim. He can't see the buildings, they're blending in with the grey sky. He can only just feel the rain on his skin.

But that one face is crystal clear, complete with the pain and sorrow etched in.

"I'm not sorry, John. You're the better person." A searing pain shoots through him and he can't help the strangled scream that escapes his lips. But he carries on with a renewed desperation. "You deserve a life, a proper life, with a family and friends, and I'm just a sociopath. Who died saving you."

0000000000

"No!"

"NO!" John watches as his friend eyelids flutter and then stop, open and showing the ocean.

The light's gone. He's gone. John buries his head into Sherlock's shoulder and cries.

**Okay that one hurt to write. **

**But if it eases the blow even a little, I can say… To be continued.**


	15. Raid and Tea, Hide and Seek

_Raid and Tea_

"Again?" He strides into the room and straight up to a smug looking Lestrade. "What have I done now?"

"This is a real Drugs Bust, Sherlock."

"And what evidence brings you here?" He keeps his angry tone but he's relaxed a little now, respects that it's technically legal, not fake. He hasn't done anything wrong and there are no drugs here.

He looks behind him at John who stands a little nervously, a look of resignation on his face. Sherlock walks back over to him and smiles. "They won't find anything."

John looks up, mistrustful. "Because it's all so well hidden."

"That would normally be true, but I've got rid of them." He raises his voice slightly. "The only thing I use now is Nicotine and company."

Anderson pipes up. "Is there a law about keeping deceased body parts in kitchen appliances?"

Lestrade chuckles and lifts himself from the armchair. "No, Anderson. Sherlock isn't a criminal, not anymore."

He glares at the DI "I was never a criminal. Technically I was never convicted of anything, thus there is no proof of any crime, thus I've never been a criminal."

Lestrade nods, "Okay. We'll leave you alone now. Goodbye John."

Sherlock smiles again and begins to put things back where they were, it isn't tidying, it's just ordering. He looks up as he hears voices in the hall, John's smiling.

"_But- surely he's done something!"_

"_Can it, Anderson." _

"Quite right too." He laughs. "He should say that more often."

John smiles again. "If only I could get you to shut up that easily."

"Oh you wouldn't want to." Sherlock begins to make a cup of tea for John and a coffee for himself.

"You're actually making tea!" The incredulous tone makes him laugh.

"Yes, John." He smiles fondly. "Actually making tea."

**So for those of you who were cursing me after apology I urge you to go and read 'Leap of Faith' which will be up soon, once I've finished it.  
I'm not dead, just the whole 'I'm back at frikken school!' got to me. I'll strive to update more regularly, once or twice a week. But I might have to much *Shudder* revision to do.**

_Hide and seek_

John watches as a jittery Sherlock paces the room. They haven't had a case in days and he can see his flatmates patience crumbling, doesn't want to admit that what Sgt. Donavan said might happen soon.

At the window Sherlock straightens and whirls around, visibly paler. "Tell her I've gone out, say that I won't be back until late, get rid of her." With that cryptic speech, Sherlock practically sprints to his room, slams then locks the door.

John gets up from his chair, confused. Out of the window he sees a black car, an elegant woman steps out on to the pavement. She smiles widely at Mrs. Hudson who opens the door and John can just about hear her say: "I'm here to see Sherlock, I'm his mother."

John bites back a laugh and folds himself back into his chair, a maniacal grin on his face.

The heels alert him to her presence and he looks over his shoulder before smiling nicely. "What can I do for you?" He asks, a picture of innocence.

"I'm looking for Sherlock I'm his-"

"Mother, I know. He's in his room just through there." He points and makes his way back to his chair, smirking at the "John!" that just came from the other room.

Mrs. Holmes takes a seat in the grey armchair and John puts down his prop, the newspaper and smiles. She laughs, "He'll come out now he knows he's been found."

Sure enough Sherlock appears at the door to the kitchen, eyes trained to the floor and hands tugging at his cuffs. He looks so different, sort of afraid.

"Sherlock," his mothers voice is warm, and she smiles at him, "I just came to say Hello."

Sherlock looks up, "Mycroft hasn't said anything?"

"No," she shakes her head and stands up, "I just missed my favourite son."

"Now that's a lie." Sherlock says but his eyes have softened and he smiles as she hugs him. "Mother, this is John Watson, my flatmate."

"Nice to meet you." She holds out a hand and John shakes it.

"And you."

Mrs. Holmes settles back down into the grey armchair while Sherlock takes the couch. She smiles and looks intently at John, "So," she says, "how do you stand living with him?"

Sherlock gives her an affronted look and then joins her in staring at john.

"The phrase 'Never a moment's peace' jumps to mind."

"Hey!"

Mrs. Holmes gives a knowing smile. "Yes, of course."

He's getting into it now. "He's childish, he refuses to go shopping-"

"There's a perfectly good reason for that!"

John throws him a sparing glance. "What? It's too dull?" He carries on at Sherlock's silence "He never sleeps and he plays that damned violin during the night."

"It stops your night terrors." The sheepish voice startles him and he turns to find his flatmate looking at him dejectedly.

He softens his expression. "That's true." He turns back to Mrs. Holmes whose eyes are flicking between her son and him with the warmest expression and a little amusement. "He's a nightmare, but my life would be so boring without him."

"Indeed. Well, I did come here with a slight agenda-"

"I knew it." Of course he did, he knows everything.

"Would it please you two to join me for dinner?" The request surprises him but he smiles.

"We'd love to!" He says happily.

"Would we?"

John throws Sherlock a chiding glance."Yes. When and where?"

"My home, Sherlock knows where it is, unless he's deleted it?"

"I know where I used to live, mother."

"Good, 8 o'clock then. Goodbye Doctor Watson. Goodbye Sherlock."

In a very comedic motion Sherlock raises his hand to his head. "What have you gone and done?"

TBC

**I know I haven't updated in ages, I'm sorry. Hope you enjoy.**


	16. Dark, Better

_Dark_

"Sherlock!"

He shrugs his shoulders. "It was annoying me."

"Can't you just put up with them! You have a skull in your living room for christ's sake!

"There is a distinct difference, the skull is of benefit to me, that is not."

"It's halloween, Sherlock the least you could do is let me have my damn glow in the dark spider webs!"

"No."

**I have no idea. I sat down to type and this happened. I need help, and glow in the dark spider webs.**

_Better_

Sherlock has only ever known the truth. He sees through lies in an instant. So when John comes home with his fingers bandaged, he knows, despite the other man's claims, that it was no accident.

He finds John sat in the living room a while later, he's just staring at the wall. Sherlock follows his gaze, nothing's new, same old wall, then why?

"What really happened to your hand, John?"

The blond looks up at him. "Is that tea?"

Sherlock hands him the mug, "Yes. My mother always made tea when people were upset."

John laughs, but it's hollow. "Smart woman, your mother. Thank you."

"She has to be, she's related to me."

There's slightly more life in the laugh that comes now but it still isn't right. "I'm fine, Sherlock."

"See, this I don't understand. You've seen me break through deciet in a moment yet you insist on lying to me, why?" He takes a seat on the couch.

"Because I hold out the hope that one day you won't notice." John is not meeting his eyes.

"Answer the question, John, truthfully."

"I thought you didn't care."

"I'll make an exception."

"I don't want you to."

"Well, I am." Sherlock softens his stance and his gaze. "Please, John. I made you tea. You owe me."

"My father isn't speaking to me."

Sherlock blinks in surprise. "Oh." It's all he can say, it's all he thinks to say. He often doesn't speak to his mother for months.

John huffs in amusement. "Yeah, beacause I'm, and I quote 'Co-habitating with another male.'"

"Your sister-"

"Hasn't heard a word for years."

"Oh. Well, did you explain that it is: One, cheaper and two, platonic." He is reaching now, no idea what to say.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what to say."

"I feel better now, the great Sherlock Holmes has been rendered speechless."

Indignation flares. "I see no logical solution."

"I could move?".

Sherlock leaps up. "No. That is illogical and – No."

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock."

Calmed, Sherlock sits down again. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him that I will live with who I want, and that I will never leave my best friend."

"Thank you, John."

"Right well, I'm tired. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."


	17. After Eights

_After Eights_

It's about seven o'clock when John Watson is hit by the impending dinner at Sherlock's childhood home. Childhood, difficult to picture, that. Downright weird to imagine a Sherlock who, well, isn't the same as he is now, arrogant, all-knowing and eccentric. But of course John knows that this behaviour has come from experience and up-bringing for he sees the same basic attitude in Mycroft. Un-bidden, John hazards to guess what Mrs. Holmes is really like, and what of Mr. Holmes? As Mycroft only ever talks of 'Mummy'. He can deduce that the house will be large, huge, even, and that the dinner will be laid out on china plates and that the cutlery will be crafted from the finest silver, this much he finds obvious from the upper class charm he has seen in the family.

Oh, yes, John often wonders why one, clearly of old money, flat shares in suburban London when he could very well use a little of his family's wealth and live in a mansion as Mycroft, undoubtedly, does. Or even, someone with a Cambridge education, and degree, though in what precise field he is not certain, could get a decent paying job! But his mind is becoming too much like Sherlock's and John forces himself to find out the truth, rather than postulate what the truth may be.

"Sherlock!" John knows full well that the detective is locked in his room and that the answering sentence will be somewhere along the lines of 'No.' but he has to at least try to ask politely before resorting to threats.

And sure enough… "I refuse to go to some pointless dinner with my mother."

He sighs and stares at the ceiling., "It isn't pointless, Sherlock, it's a nice thing to do. Most adults, hell most people, enjoy being in the company of their family." But Sherlock Holmes is not most people.

"Most people are boring, I am not. Most people are not me."

"Sherlock, if I have to get your mother over here to drag you out, I will. Or you can come without a fuss, in a calm and civilised manner."

There is an audible groan, a shuffling of feet, and the clicks and creaks of a door being inlocked and opened by someone who isn't entirely happy with their lot.

At the sight of the death glare that Sherlock sends his way John cannot sstop the laugh that escapes him. "Oh come on, this'll be fun."

Another death glare and a harsh retort, "The colloquialism 'Ha ha ha no.' springs to mind." Sherlocks accent accentuates the vowels and the phrase oozes sarcasm.

"So, how are we getting to… where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow and a little of the spark returns to them. "As for question number one, we have no vehicle available to us except the one that we always use which is…?"

"Taxi." John rolls his eyes, feeling like a student with a very condescending teacher.

"And as for where we are going, you can map out the route on the way."

"Sherlock, it is now half past seven, may I ask how long it takes to get from here to," he lifts his hands into inverted commas, "'Insert place name here'?"

Sherlock frowns, this is the mental maths frown, it's more of a slight downturn of the mouth, really, as he works out the sums in his head. "Ah," he remarks "We may have to be a little late."

John folds his arms and stares the detective down. "How late, Sherlock?"

"Depends on traffic."

"How late, Sherlock?"

"I can only guess."

"How-"

"We'll see!" And Sherlock disappears in a whirl of his coat.

0000000000000000000000000

The taxi driver wholly comprehends that they are in a hurry, but he also wholly understands that the longer they are in the cab, the more money he gets so John isn't sure whether they are going at a reasonable speed or they've picked the second worst cabbie London has ever seen.

Sherlock is quiet and reserved, so quiet in fact the John has to strain to hear the quiet breaths that come few and far between. Again John's mind picks up that this may be a habit picked up from eavesdropping, in fact it probably is, because the only other explanation would be that Sherlock is healthy, and that sure as hell is not the case. Even if the man did yoga, the disciplines would be cancelled out by his being an ex smoker and ex user. So John can only guess that this is from childhood, and that when he was very young he may have had bradypnea. But John digresses.

And while John's mind is wandering into a tangent, Sherlock's is trying desperately not to climb down this trecherous memory lane. Sherlock loves his mother dearly, and he _cares _for Mycroft but he never felt at home with them. Uncomfortable under their judging glances and shrewd analyses.

Sherlock has deleted this, most of this but memories leave ghosts like the icons in a recycle bin, far to easily reloaded and remembered. So he very swiftly pulls the plug, he stops thinking of the past and begins to review the present. Of one thing he is certain, Mycroft will be there. Of course Mycroft will be there, otherwise he himself wouldn't have to be there, but, why invite John?

Surreptitiously, as only Sherlock Holmes can be, he sneaks a glance at the doctor, curled slightly inward as if fearing the worst of this ill fated dinner. Sherlock cannot bring himself to laugh and say I told you so, for he knew this day would come, and he is experiencing the precise same fear.

A sigh of relief and they are there. John gazes up at the momentous building that looms in front of him, the stately home that appeared out of nowhere.

"Right then, let's get this over with." Sherlock's voice is surprisingly calm and collected though John noticed that he is continually ringing his hands. With a nodd, John follows the tall detective up to the large front door, which, after what seems to be quite some deliberation, Sherlock taps three times.

The door creaks open to the smiling face of Mycroft Holmes, "Ahh. Dr. Watson, Sherlock."

John accepts the smile and returns it while Sherlock glares and brushes past his brother. He follows to see the detective enveloped in a warm hug, and then Mrs. Holmes turns on him.

"Good evening Dr. Watson, I trust Sherlock did not put up too much of a fight."

John laughs cordially, "Debatable." This earns a sly smile from Mrs. Holmes.

"Call me Violet, please."

"and you can call me John."

Sherlock, who has been watching this meeting intently decides that it is now his turn to step in and bring them both back to the matter at hand, and get his John back before his mother says something embarassing or can corrupt John in any way. A small part of him wonders where this sudden ferocious possessiveness came from, but the rest of him just goes with it.

"Now that's all done can I draw yout attention back to the thing we came her for, dinner."

John gives him a perplexed look and his mother smiles knowingly, he fixes a scowl upon his face. His mother leads them, and Mycroft, to the dining room where the plates and places are set and filled with the starter of the night.

Sherlock stares at the soup as if it is going to bite him, before whipping his hand out grabbing the single bread roll and tearing it with excessive force.

John stares at the soup with a wary appetite. He's hungry, very hungry but he has never tried this soup before. His resolve is to eat it whether he likes it or not, he refuses to be as rude as his flatmate, who is lounging across the chair and roughly destroying a piece of bread with a murderous glint in his eyes. Ahh, John realises, the bread is now a mixture of Mycroft and himself, the evil big brother, and the one who dragged them into this.

Mycroft has no qualms with the soup, he tucks in gratefully, for he like his brother doesn't eat very often, but he unlike his brother appreciates the need for food.

Violet, seated at the head of the table, sips her soup daintily while keeping half an eye on Sherlock and John. She isn't entirely sure what to think of the mild mannered invalided army doctor. She isn't sure at all.

She sees the little glances that are thrown between them when one thinks the other isn't looking, and she notices, she is a Holmes after all, that their body language indicates a rather close bond. Slightly more than one of friends.

But quite frankly, she doesn't give a damn as long as Sherlock is happy and safe, or as safe as he can be. This he is, so she smiles and watches as Sherlock reverts to childish behaviour, taunting Mycroft as usual.

"_Comme d'habitude_." She murmurs.

John Watson smiles and nods. "_Comme d'habitude_."

**A/N Hello, gosh it's been a long time hasn't it? Well I just thought I'd let you know that this isn't it there will be more, I'm just rather tired and I think that I should give you this so that I don't get killed or something. I'm so very, very tired. **


	18. Damned

_Damned_

***Crackle of Radio waves* We interrupt your scheduled John, Sherlock, Mycroft and Mother dinner party to bring you an utterly crazy fic. Because this is what happens when I listen to songs on the way home from school. Author out. *Crackle***

When John first met Sherlock Holmes, he honestly didn't know what to make of him, and then with neither his permission nor his consent he was thrust into the eccentric world where murders were fun and the words arch-enemy really meant elder brother. He didn't want the craziness at first, but the flat was great and the price was better, what harm a lunatic? The craziness grew on him and he felt himself begin to enjoy the company of the man who had become the centre of his little world.

_You left me police tape, chalk line..._

It was only after Sherlock almost died that John began to view his new life, no longer as a game, but a deadly race to the finish. In 24 hours his empty life and been filled to bursting and his old life left in the dust. His nightmares of army friend dying without him there to save them changed to nightmares of the same happening to one man, Sherlock.

_Suburban living with the feeling that I'm giving up everything for you..._

After the first day he knew that he might just be in trouble, it was during the Moriarty incident that he knew that he was damned. He had wanted to leave then, leave the danger and the craziness, but he could feel the weight of a certain someones sanity pressing upon him for support and he couldn't bring himself to leave, leaving would unhinge them both. It wasn't healthy but damn if it wasn't true.

So John Watson stays because both of them are damned if he leaves, and it's just him that is damned if he doesn't.

_Something's telling me to leave but I won't, 'cause I'm damned if I do ya, damned if I don't._

**Yay? Anyway now onto business. So when this all began I had a lot of reviewers, and hell yeah I check my emails and it heartens me ever time I see a story alert alert (sounds weird but moving on) but I feel that I may have lost my touch as my reviews have dropped and yeah that sounds rude and yeah it's selfish but it makes my day when this little ol' story gets a review, it keeps me going, it keeps me sane. So I don't like to say this, trust me I don't, but I fear if I don't get reviews I may well give up. **

**So yeah, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!**

**And I give my never ending love to those who do anyway.**


	19. Projection, Chord, dark bunny

_Projection_

The attribution of ones own attitudes, feelings, or desires to someone or something as a naive or unconscious defense against anxiety or guilt.

Sherlock is frowning. Sherlock is nearly always frowning, except when he's asleep (not often) or high. That doesn't change the fact that John has become susceptible to constant frowning too. It isn't like he is impressionable, it's just the violence of the mood swings he is subjected to rubs off, like it's contagious.

Sherlock snaps at him, he snaps the hell back. When Sherlock smiles, he can't help but grin too. It isn't healthy but he cannot get it to stop.

As long as it only happens with Sherlock, he'll be fine.

The man him self has noticed that John's moods effect him as well, though in this case it doesn't annoy him, it downright scares him. He's always been a sociopath in his head, but in reality, just the thing he does, his job, negates this. It seems this _projection_, this thing that makes him susceptible to the moods of another is making him empathetic.

As long as it only happens with John, he'll make do.

_Chord (or rather dis-chord)_

It screeches. He's just trying to get me downstairs, John thinks, and he can bloody well think again.

The notes are getting higher, more grating and he begins to wonder how the bastard stands it, him being much closer to the dreaded thing with it's earsplitting volume.

It stops, and John stupidly lets out a sigh of relief. But then he hears the lightest possible footfalls outside his door. Just as the door handle begins to turn John pushes it down and yanks the door open, watching as the form of Sherlock Holmes falls to the floor most ungracefully.

"That'll teach you." He smiles, mischievous glint in his eyes.

Sherlock rights himself and glares at the slightly soporific doctor and draws up to him, towering over him.

"Uncalled for."

"I like most people, Sherlock, actually need that little thing called sleep. It was entirely justified."

Sherlock raises his hand pointing straight at John's eyes. After a while of just glaring down, Sherlock gives up and with an exasperated cry he leaves the room.

John gets about an hour of blessed sleep before he hears the gun click.

_When authors get bored_

"Sherlock, dear, have you eaten anything since he left?"

"No, and thank you for that timely reminder Mrs. Hudson, just what I needed."

"Sorry, dear."

"No your not, you think I'm pathetic just like the rest of your bloody normal people."

"Calm down Sherlock."

"I will not calm down, Mrs. Hudson. I'm kind of past that already."

"He'll come back dear, somewhere he feels the same as you."

"No he doesn't and he isn't coming back. Deal with the new me, Mrs. Hudson 'cause he's settling in!"

A frustrated Mrs. Hudson leaves and a couple of days later Sherlock Holmes is found unresponsive in a drug induced coma.

A hollow shell of a person visits everyday, a police detective inspector once a month. When Sherlock Holmes slips away, so does the man who was once known as John Watson.

**Ooh. Dark. Never going to revisit that AU, that's for sure. Anyway. Every day this week shall have a story, or three little ones. **

**I promise.**


	20. Correlation, Spur

_Correlation_

Sergeant Donavan is convinced that when she said that John Watson was not the freak's friend, she was telling the truth. And she's convinced that they still aren't friends, she thinks they skipped that step.

Her observation is based on guess work and the little links she sees, glaring at her. Especially the body language. They stand, walk, move too close together to be platonic, and they seem to know exactly what the other one is thinking, even though the freak's mind works at a mile a minute.

So when John Watson rushes in with a phone to his ear, and desperation wide in his eyes, Donavan knows that something isn't right.

Not that she cares. Right?

_Spur_

It caught his eye, okay? It isn't like he's going to make a habit of buying his flatmate random gifts but come on, it is almost Christmas and he just new that this scarf would suit the blond.

"What's that?" John doesn't look up from the paper.

Sherlock smiles deviously. "Nothing."

The doctor looks up, "Liar."

He laughs and throws the bag into his room, yelling back."Yes but I'm still not going to tell you what I have in the bag."

Though he cannot see, him, Sherlock just knows that John is pouting. "Don't pout at me, you know it doesn't work."

"Yes it does!" Indignance colours the tone.

"When?" Genuine wonder strikes him then.

"That time when you were playing the violin terribly at a heinous volume in the middle of the night."

He rolls his eyes. "That narrows it down."

"So you admit that you play the violin terribly at a heinous volume in the middle of the night?"

"No." He frowns, he set himself up for that one. "Goodnight, John."

He hears a yawn float up the stairs. "G'night Sherlock."

**A/N: THANK YOU REVIEWERS You have renewed my confidence and made me smile. Tomorrow, or maybe Friday, I promise that there will be the second part of after eights, I promise. **

**Byee.**

**And The first one was a different view of a scene from "These calls always go to the police."**

**Byee**


	21. Home Truths After Eights2

_Home Truths_

_I know your type_

He's mommy's little boy, but it isn't obvious 'cause Sherlock Holmes is dependant on none, or is he?

John can quite clearly see that a fatherless child has latched securely onto the only source of un-ending love he has probably ever got, everything Sherlock does here is with grudgingly amused respect for 'Mummy'

After dinner they had moved into the old drawing room, fully kitted as a rustic but modern sitting room. Sherlock takes the sofa and stretches his limbs to cover most all its surface area. Mycroft, who had wanted that seat as well growls into his tea.

John, finally relaxed into the warm, eccentric house takes a armchair next to the Sherlock/Sofa monster and Violet takes a seat by the window where snow is falling thick.

"Sherlock, must you have the entire sofa, didn't we teach you to share?"

He can't be sure but he thinks he sees Sherlock grin uncharacteristically, this isn't a smirk this is a mischievous smile as he props himself up on his elbows and laughs at his mother. "There is a difference between you teaching and me computing, and I am only making sure Mycroft is uncomfortable."

Viloet smiles and shakes her head at her son, "And how would you feel if Mycroft did the same to you?"

"He does so when he shows off his marvelous powers of intrusion, which is always." Sherlock replies without missing a beat and John finds his eyes flicking between Mother and youngest son, skipping out an annoyed looking Mycroft all together.

With a small sigh Violet relaxes back into the cushions and her beady eyes, green unlike Sherlock's, latch unto John.

The feeling that he is being watched is unnerving and he is just about to say something when Sherlock's smooth baritone beats him to it.

"Mother, do stop staring at John. It is making him uncomfortable."

"This is payback for Mycroft's discomfort." Violet says while John mutters "Never bothered you before."

Sherlock first adresses his flatmate and in a tone that brooks no argument states the "I'm allowed," clause in every friendship. He then turns to his mother and frowns "Why are you initiating payback for my deed on someone who is not me. Why would I care?"

Violet and Mycroft share a look. "Why do you care?"

The detective turns away so as to hide the fleeting look of confusion and John begins to feel guilty that he is letting them intimidate his friend.

He gives up. "Let him have the sofa, you can stare all you like."

"Loyal. See?" Mycroft purrs condescendingly from the flimsy chair he'd found.

Violet smiles and nodds. "You are lucky, Sherlock. Treat him with the same loyalty and self-sacrifice he has you."

"What do you mean self sacrifice?"

"Did he, or did he not, save your life from a lunatic cabbie?"

"We will never know if my life was indeed in jeopardy."

"But he was willing to save you, and go to court for you. Have you anything to add?" It is an open question and the most unlikely of persons answers.

"Crazed fool also jumped in front of a bullet for me."

John blinks, he's had idiot and fool but never 'Crazed fool.' Especially in that bitter and cutting tone that jars through the smoothness of the voice behind it.

Sherlock rises, his eyes narrowed in what most would say cruelty but John knows that Sherlock isn't unhappy, he's upset. "I think that is quite enough chat for today, and for ever, so if you don't mind I am going home."

Ignoring the use of the singular again in the rare 'I' rather than 'we' John gazes at Violet to gauge her reaction.

"Come come now, it was just a bit of fun." She chides.

"Yeas, Sherlock, it was all in good humour."

Sherlock round on his brother who suddenly looks very small in that flimsy chair. "Was it, Mycroft?"

Violet has got up and placed her hands on her youngests shoulders, the woman is tiny. Her eyes hold a little hurt, and her mouth is reproachful, disappointed. "Calm down, love."

Sherlock backs down and bites out, "He only does it to bait me."

Violet drags Sherlock down to her height, "Then you should not let yourself be so easily baited, and anyway dear the snow has fallen thick and the roads out of here will be closed."

"Please do not say what you are about to say…"

"You'll have to stay here for the night."

…

**You saw it coming when I mentioned the snow didn't you? Yes I know it's cliché, yes I know it's late but… I don't actually have an excuse so sorry?**

**S **

**The whole 'I know your type' was just my mind singing to itself, Why it chose cobra starship I do not know but it was as good a starter as any.**


	22. Prologue

_Impromptu (Prologue)_

Expects the world to cave in when those words are uttered, years since he's stayed at this place, years since this place has been home. Now, stuck here, Mycroft, Mother, but John; John he can live with (and does) John whose eyes betray an uncertainty and a little fear.

Sherlock refuses to talk, but sweeps over to his friend.

Mycroft smiles. "Don't be absurd Mother, the roads are not closed."

Green eyes crinkle in amusement, while two sets of greyish blue become steel, and glint with annoyance.

"You can take your old room, and give John the one next door." Violet waves in the general upstairs direction, and turns to Mycroft. "And you take your old room."

"I, Mother, am not staying."

Violet frowns and Sherlock glowers, "Helicopters cannot fly through heavy snow, Mycroft."

"Mine can, and will. Good evening, Dr. Watson," he nods, "Sherlock, Mother."

A ringing sound reverberates and Mycroft's earpiece glows. Words are exchanged, the likes of 'We are the government' to which Sherlock mouths 'I told you so', and 'Make sure you bloody well do!'

Sherlock smiles truly for the first time this evening and fixes his brother with a smug look, "How unfortunate. With the world's military and gadgetry at your disposal you are still stuck in the same boat as us mere mortals. How terrible for you."

With an evil smile Sherlock takes Johns hand and drags him upstairs (ever does that sound wrong)

John finds himself hurtling through narrow corridors of an early 20th century house, seeing paintings and antiques rush past him. Sherlock stops suddenly outside two doors very close to each other. "I used to have both rooms, I put up a fight when they proposed that they make that one a guestroom, clearly I wasn't as good then as I am now."

Wants to tell John about the child Sherlock Holmes, but wants to keep past things as far away as possible. Letting him in on the secrets could be a genius' mistake. Watches as the doctor slips inside a room he hasn't seen for years, and slips into his own, with hesitation.

The room is the same. Double bed, always has been. Window seat, reading books, books he has now deleted. Desk, furious writing, homework, theses, handwriting copperplate then scratchy and narrow.

Memories flood back faster than bullets and hurt about as much. Staggers back, bewildered. Everything. Is. The. Same.

But everything has changed so _much,_innocence gone, replaced by cool acceptance of the fact that he is a freak. Sally Donavan wasn't the first to coin the nickname. It loses it's initial sting but the ache's still there, lingers, black and white memory waiting to be jogged.

Exhaustion overwhelms. Darkness falls. A tall body collapses on a made bed. The mattress barely moves, not enough weight, not enough mass.

Not enough there.

**A/N Well this is surprising me about as much as it will have done you. Sherlock has an interesting psychology. I think my Sherlock is a bit manic depressive. **

**Fun times.**

**It says prologue because Impromptu is a series of about five chapters. This is very short compared to them, very short. You have been warned.**

**Moo Ha Ha**


	23. One

_Impromptu_

_One_

Sherlock wakes up to freezing cold and stumbles into standing.

He reaches out a long fingered hand, closes it around the wooden post of the bed.

Needs to get out of here fast. He strides to the door and down to a room that he hasn't thought of in a lifetime.

Every object in the room is caked in a thick layer of dust, he pulls a handkerchief from a pocket and holds it to his face.

It sits just where he'd left it. A splendid piece of craft and artistry. Wrought of wood and horse hair. His first violin.

It is scratched and dulled from being treated with less than able hands. Cared for by people ignorant of its beauty. He reaches to it and rescues it.

In the living room now, he lights the fire and settles into a comfortable armchair. Folding his knees to his chest in a manner reminiscent of his childhood, he brushes the cobwebs and matter from his violin.

He raises the bow and the instant it touches the strings the room is filled with a haunting but intoxicating melody.

He's making it up as he goes.

Mycroft resists the urge to run down to the room and break that violin. He gets up instead and walks purposefully down, enjoying, albeit grudgingly, the music.

He meets John on the landing of the second floor. The doctor's brow is crinkled in confusion. Mycroft takes that to mean that his brother had been silent when he fled.

He says nothing and the little man's shuffling footsteps follow him to the living room.

His mother stands in the doorway, long grey hair curling across her shoulder. She looks back at the two men and nods. There are tears in her eyes.

They stay in the door frame for what seems like an age, the composition drifts through crescendo's, leaping across octaves and changing dynamics like the wind.

Eventually the lean hand stills and the bow slips to the floor.

The doctor moves swiftly to his friend.

Mycroft turns to his mother who hugs him.

"I miss him," she whispers.

Those damn eyes are there again when his eyes open. They were there in his dream and they're here when he wakes.

"John." Soft, more a whispered reassurance than a statement or question. He's struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Are you okay?" Soothing but concerned. There's an edge to the voice, an uncertainty. "That was quite some piece you played."

Played? Sherlock hazards a glance around, drinking the scenery slowly with small sips between weary blinks.

The violin. He remembers, he found it. He brought it down here. He played. Played for John, Mother, Mycroft. The people who care, even in the smallest measurement, about him.

He'd forgotten where he was, he'd forgotten why he was there, in those moments.

Remembers now. Sharp intake of breath. He'd passed out.

"Sherlock," the voice is definitely more fervent now. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." He thinks so. Or at least for the first fleeting time, as if he could be alright.

"John?"

"Aha, Sherlock?"

Sheepishly, he glances to the floor. Looks back into those damned eyes. "Help me up?"

**a/n Umm. YOU GUISE! I'm not going to say I'm back because these updates will be far from frequent, but well, this is my gcse year. **

**oh and BloodInk24, this can't be your air but It'll try to be your sustenance.**


	24. After the End

_We met in a hospital. A – a – a laboratory. He told me things about myself and I thought he was crazy. But I went with it. I met him at the flat in 221 Baker Street. And this is fast becoming just a how this happened story. Previously on my life – heh. _

_Uhm. He wouldn't – he. He wouldn't want much of a fuss, I suppose. He'd want to be lauded for what he's done. For who he i – was. But I guess the papers and the press have made that impossible. _

_He asked – mm – uh. He asked me to – to. To tell everyone that he was a lie and I can't do that. Not while I still know that there must've have been something else at play and I know there was. He wasn't alone on the roof. If I'd have – mm. If I had got there earlier maybe I could have done something but – but probably not. Thinking back he most certainly did it on purpose. Ha. Of course he did._

_I – I – uhm. I miss him. I don't ever think I'll stop. Seems an impossiblity. He was the best man I have ever known. The most human when it mattered. And I – I. I'm sorry. I can't. _

_Uhm. A t-toast to Sh-Sherlock Holmes. Still the world's only consulting detective and never a fake._

00000

It always rains at funerals and quite frankly it's bloody well apt. The rain's still pouring down apathetically during the sombre wake.

They are guilty.

Each and every-one of them there feels guilty, except, perhaps Harry, but John sees it in the eyes of his friends. Of Mycroft. Of Donavan and Anderson. Even of Mrs. Hudson.

He knows that their grief must reflect in his own eyes. A nagging "I'm so sorry… I didn't mean it. None of us did. Come back…" a cruel guilt that cannot be swayed.

How dare he leave them like this.

How could he?

And how could he ask John to lie. Tell him to – to besmirch the reputation of a man he loved like a brother? How does one just do that?

He half expects the man himself to come swanning into the room, dripping wet from the rain, like it ain't no thang. He slips his eyes closed as he sits in the corner praying that they'll open on a different universe. Back at the flat, the companiable silence – even the angry silence punctuated by awful cutting looks. Either would be better. He isn't fussy.

All he wants is one more miracle.

"Are you okay, John?"

He looks up and it's Lestrade. It's Lestrade and he shakes his head because he can tell the truth here. This is a wake.

"No – no I'm not."

"I can try to tell the papers that it was all a lie. A lie wrapped inside a lie. That Sherlock Holmes dies the hero we both knew 'im to be. D'you think he'd want that?"

John looks up at the DI. "Frankly, right now, I don't care what he'd've wanted. Do what you can. I can't have the world beleiving in a lie. That was the point of him. He always tried to make people see the truth – "

Lestrade shushes him and tells him that he can stop now. That he needn't explain himself.

John finds himself staring at the floor more and feeling more than seeing the people leave until it's just Mrs. Hudson hovering at his side.

"Are you ready, John?"

John Watson shakes his head but stands up, shoulders back, head held high.

"No. But I can try."

* * *

**A/N Soooo. That happened. And I could nae deny it any longer. **


	25. A year

Plus One Year; or Older and Wiser

A tale

It's been a year. One year since. One year past. One year forward. A year older. A year wiser. Maybe even a year happier.

But not really.

He feels like he's been here forever. Like this. Then he feels like it happened just yesterday.

Every so often, he'll catch his mind still buzzing with the grief, the loss, the silence.

Once in a while he'll have himself convinced, against all reason and all rhyme, that the man is still breathing and out there. Battling the ignorant in some far off country far away from prying eyes. From the media who painted him so badly.

From John.

He'll have it all planned out. How he did this, how he did that. And then he'll remember…

_Crack. Fall. Crunch._

And he'll squeeze his eyes shut against the onslaught of images, wish he was deaf to the brutal rush of sound. Impervious to the touch of a cold hand, a still pulse and a bloodied corpse.

John Watson will convince himself that Sherlock Holmes is alive, and then he'll find the flaws in his ideas and convince himself that no, he really isn't.

Mycroft is still the government. Lestrade is still DI. Donovan has risen though. She has her own team, and Anderson has carried on with his job.

Mrs Hudson still dithers around her home 221 Baker street. She still dithers and tidies flat b.

John still lives here. Regardless of the memories because most of them are good and he will cling to those until he loses them. Until his memory fades he will hold them in a little box above his heart while underneath he still feels the tug of the red cord from his ribcage*. A tug that means he's wishing again that the shadows he's been seeing are what he hopes they are.

Oh, the shadows.

They started a couple of months ago. Fleeting, flickering. Lunging across the walls behind him, silhouettes cast by the sunlight, the moonlight, the light from the windows, streetlamps. Hardly during the day but sometimes. Mostly when he makes his way home from the clinic or when he walks through the park, the streets, for air and quiet.

Sometimes the shadow will be close and sometimes far. Sometimes it will cast behind his, others in front.

Occaisionally there are many, most often there is one.

Tall, slender.

But all shadows when cast from behind are elongated and maybe it's all just wishful thinking.

He never finds himself frightened, though. Regardless of that fact he feels he should.

'You are being followed John Watson, or your mind is playing tricks. You should be scared for you life or you sanity. Why is it that you aren't?' The cold, blatant, reason of his mind will ask him, as he walks through the dark and the light.

'Because I feel I needn't.' The heart will answer. 'I hardly need fear death now, I can fear the pain of death, and the loss that others will feel but I myself need not fear it. And as for sanity, I rather think there has always been a certain deficiency of that in here. I should not miss what I feel I have already lost.'

The reason will get angrier; 'Sherlock Holmes was not your heart!' it will screech. 'Sherlock Holmes was not your head! Why do you do this to yourself? Continue to dwell on dreams of him living, breathing – '

And the heart will grow quiet but remain firm. It will end the mental debate with a simple heartfelt statement: 'What else was he if not my heart or head?'

What then was I to him?

It's a niggling, whisper of a question said by neith head no heart. An amalgamation of the two. This is John's question to himself.

And John does not have the answer.

000000000

London is a large system and if one does not want to run into the trouble of meeting those one doesn't want to, it can be relatively easy.

Hire your own private car, get a p.a. and you still might find yourself trailed everywhere by a taxi cab.

Not odd for just on occaision, but all the time? The taxi always being there. Always a different driver, always a different plate. But a taxi behind you whenever you turn around.

Why is there a taxi?

000000000

John notices that the shadow has been missing for a while now, maybe a couple of weeks.

An insolent part of his mind allows itself to wonder: What's he doing?

* * *

Hello Sherlockians, how're you? So this is the start of a story that'll go on for a while.

reviews are nice.


	26. No Light for Skinny Love

Pointing out here, it isn't his fault and nothing will convince him that his choice was the wrong one. It wasn't. End of story, thank you and goodnight.

**Look after him. Please.**  
**Please.**  
**SH**

Message sent: Mycroft Holmes.

He knows that the liklihood of Mycroft running to John and letting him know is slim but he watches warily just in case.

He knew then and he certainly knows now that you can _never_ be too careful. Never. He's given in his luxury coat, his crisp, clean shirts amd his nice expensive shoes – traded them for black hooded jumpers, jeans and trainers. Safety in anonymity. Safety in lies.

He keeps tabs on them, on all of them.

He knows about Lestrade's attempts to clear his name and help his cause.

He knows about how John's refusal to leave 221b lasted about 6 months before he caved and left. He knows that he still visits.

He's seen graffiti begin, all over the city. In deserted alleyways and even public buildings. The same message over, and over:

**BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES**

The first time he sees it, it makes him smile, a wry and aching curve of a chapped and dry upper lip. The second begins to scare him.

When John sees it and has a minor collapse he has to keep himself from rushing forward, out of his shadowy hiding place. As it is he just walks past, asking, in a gruff and unrecognisable voice if he's okay?

John nods without looking at him and helps himself up. "I'm fine." He says. "Thank you."

Sherlock nods and carries on his way, head held high, without a second glance no matter the tug, the pull, the need. The string from his ribcage pulling him back, it yields because this is the right thing to do.

It has to be.

It is.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, it's locked onto the same number as the phone he gave to John.

People still believe, Sherlock. Come back.  
I miss you, life isn't the same without you.  
JW

Sherlock grips the phone tightly and holds it to his lips, knuckles whitening.

A tear slips down and he doesn't even care.

That night he stays outside John's new flat. Just watching, quietly, waiting.

He'd told himself to be patient, and he'd promised that he'd be balanced but he was bursting to see John, properly.

To take whatever was coming to him when – if – he found out.

The punches, the silence, the anger, the happiness, the kiss anything.

C'mon, Sherlock what have you done?

What happened here?

Oh, yes, you did. You selfish bastard with your games and your fight. It was your war, Sherlock and you dragged them all into it.

It is your fault.

Sherlock shakes his head and thinks properly.

"I have to make it right," it's muttered, quiet but oh so resolved a blessing, a promise.

He pushes himself up and he lowers the hood.

He lets his longer now hair fall to his eyes and he starts across the road.

He knocks on the door and looks at his shoes.

Ugly trainers. White and gaudy.

The door opens and there's an intake of breath, a gasp and a widening of eyes.

"I – you can't be – Sherlock?" John's eyes hold all the pain Sherlock has been feeling and more. They're watering now and his own eyes moisten in response.

"John – "

The other man shakes his head fervently. "No, Sherlock, this is a conversation I just can't have right now. I'll find you tomorrow. I don't know, go to 221b or something. Break in. but leave me alone for now.." his voice breaks. "please."

The door closes, it isn't slammed, and Sherlock unfuses his mind.

He kicks up the snow around his ankles. He wonders vaguely when it started, the snow.

He wanders around before falling into the familiar pattern of the way to 221b.

He closes his eyes and begins to hum and then sing, quietly, softly:

_Come on, Skinny Love, What happened here? _

Inside his flat without anyone else, save the dog. John is also singing.

_You are the revelation, you are to get it right, but it's a coversation I just can't have tonight. You are the revelation, some kind of resolution._

Both are thinking:

Tell me what you want me to say.


End file.
